Voice Ensouled
by MouetteHeartsErik
Summary: A sequel to my story, A Voice without a Soul, this will be a series of brief shots from the first year or two of their marriage. EC, obviously, and will contain a little bit of everything: fluff, some angst and drama, etc.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone, and welcome to Voice Ensouled. This isn't really a _sequel_, per se, as much as it is a series of glimpses into the lives of my Erik and Christine from _A Voice without a Soul_ throughout the first year or so of their marriage. I know, I know; I said I wasn't going to write more. But . . . I just couldn't let them go.

Particularly without this, the obligatory wedding-night scene (still T-rated and very tame; this is me, after all!).

Please, please review! Reviews make me want to write more, and as I still struggle with my continued association with fanfiction . . . (hint, hint).

_Christine_

We floated along the underground lake in silence; my eyes roamed the cavern, seeing the darkness with the gaze of a new wife, but my mind was wholly concentrated on the man behind me. I thought of how I must look to him: a figure standing boldly at the prow, gowned in bridal white, with her dark hair tumbling down her back; otherworldly and almost too real.

I wished he would speak.

But as we lightly came to shore, the increased pace of my heartbeat told the truth: I wanted more than just his voice, tonight.

Erik lifted me out of the boat and set me on the dry ground before his—our—home; those long, beautiful hands lingered at my waist. We were still silent, staring at each other, and I had to stifle a gasp as he slowly drew his hands from me in a long caress.

He looked away from me; the tension between us ebbed, but did not break, and his voice was rough when he spoke. "You should eat something." Erik took my hand and led me to our kitchen.

I wanted to protest; I wasn't hungry. Not for food. I was hungry for the intensity, always barely stifled, in his eyes whenever he said my name. I was hungry for his hands, the now-gentle, now-jagged way he would touch me with them before abruptly putting space between us. I was hungry for _Erik _. . .

None of these were hungers I could convey to him. I was too shy, raised too properly, to ask that he teach me of those things which were between a man and his wife. So I followed Erik to the kitchen and meekly sat down, absently eating whatever he put in front of me.

The awkwardness between us did not ease; Erik kept a distinct space between us.

When we finished eating, we both sat at the table, not quite looking at each other. Slowly, I gathered my courage and stood, reaching my hand out to him. In silence, Erik took it, though I could see the wary hesitation in his eyes as he followed me.

As I had half-expected, he halted us just outside my bedroom door. I turned to face him, wanting to argue, but he silenced me with a chaste kiss and a "Goodnight, Christine," before turning and beginning to walk away.

Not caring if anyone in the opera house above us heard, I called on the vocal ability he had given me and shouted his name.

_Erik_

"_Erik_!"

I stopped, unwillingly. Didn't she know how she was testing me?

I wanted her. I had wanted her for over a year, now. But Christine's innocence was something I cherished; I did not want to destroy it.

This was only the reason I told myself I was resisting her. The truth was, I loved the angel who had now consented to become my wife, but I had no idea how to go _about_ loving her.

For all the teasing I indulged in with her, what kept me from her now was my absolute terror of harming her again.

"Yes, Christine?" I still had not faced her.

She came up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her face between my shoulder blades. I couldn't quite ignore how warm, how _right_ it felt to have her touching me . . .

I felt her breathe deeply, and then, softly, she murmured, "Come with me."

If I hadn't been using all of my concentration to _not_ do exactly that, I would have laughed at the thought of Christine inviting me into her room so boldly. I could not answer her.

"Will you make me beg?" Christine asked softly. "I do not want to spend tonight weeping because my husband avoids my room even on our wedding night."

I spun around, catching her and crushing her to my chest. Letting my eyes burn into hers, our noses almost touching, I demanded, "Do you know what you are asking?"

"I do," she retorted almost as forcefully; Christine made her words a deliberate echoing of our vows earlier that day.

Smirking down at her, I lazily stroked her jaw. I might be inexperienced in marriage, but arguing with Christine comes as easily as breathing. "Really?" I asked dryly, then made my tone a seductive velvet purr. "What _are_ you asking, my dear?"

I restrained another smile at Christine's silence; then her soft, willing lips were playing against mine. She teased me, drawing back a little, and I hungrily followed until realizing that I was playing into her hands. Before I could remedy the situation, Christine's mouth opened in an invitation I found impossible to resist.

She was holding me close, her hands tangled in my hair; I had not even noticed Christine removing my mask, though she must have done so. It would have been impossible for me to ravage her tender mouth so thoroughly if she hadn't.

Without my direction, my hands wandered across the back of her bodice and down to her sensitive sides. I found that I couldn't care much that I was intimately holding her hips; her kiss was too distracting.

We had slowly been moving backwards; Christine had been guiding us, for I was incapable of paying attention to anything but the warmth of her mouth. Our retreat halted; regretfully pulling back from Christine, I discovered that we were in her room; her legs, pressed against the side of her bed, were what had stopped us.

I looked down at my angel-wife. Her eyes were burning, her cheeks rosy; even her red, red lips were swollen with desire. An unintended groan escaped me; she was so beautiful, so utterly tempting. I lifted my hand to the back of her head, burying it gently in the dark curls. "Christine," I protested weakly.

Her gaze softened. "Erik," Christine whispered, her lost tone cutting through my heart, "don't you want this? Don't you want . . . me?"

I dropped to my knees, resting my face upon her lap as she sat on the bed. "Of course I do, you little fool," I grumbled, equal parts affection and growl in my voice.

Christine waited.

Slowly, I grasped her wrist and traced the area where now-faded bruises had once been evidence of the violence of my passions—anger, then—whenever she was involved. "I _can't_ hurt you again, Christine," I finally told her, my voice softened so much it was a wonder she could hear it at all. "I can't."

"Erik." She gently raised my face until I was forced to look at her. "I trust you, Erik," Christine whispered. "You won't hurt me."

"And if I do? I demanded.

Her lips twitched, ever so slightly. "Then next time, you will know how not to."

She was serious.

I took the wrist I was holding and warmly kissed her palm, my eyes never leaving hers. A blush swept up her skin; I laughed quietly and slowly stood. Christine's eyes sparkled as she lay back onto the bed; I followed, leaning over her until I had to put my hands on either side of her to support my weight. Relishing the delight I saw in her face, I lowered mine until our lips were almost touching. "I think we were right . . . about . . . here," I murmured, brushing my lips against hers with each word. Christine giggled, a happy, inviting sound, and I began to devour her succulent mouth again, paying attention to each and every detail.

_Christine_

The room was dark, but I was warm. Shifting a little, I discovered the reason for this; I was curled up against Erik. His chest was like a furnace, drawing me in, and I willfully pressed closer to him.

A firm, masculine hand began rubbing slow circles on my back. I smiled and closed my eyes. "Mmm," I mumbled, too content to be bothered with forming complete sentences.

My living pillow moved as Erik laughed softly. "And a good morning to you, too, my love," he drawled. The teasing tone in his voice intensified as he wickedly murmured, "I spent the night in the arms of an angel—so is this heaven?"

"Erik!"

More laughter followed my outburst.

He was right, though.

This was heaven.


	2. Chapter 2

_Christine_

Erik had fallen asleep again, but this morning was far too enchanting for me to spend it dozing. Everything seemed to be refreshed, sparkling with new life as though I had never seen it before. Erik had said long ago that all he owned was mine, but this was the first morning in which I truly felt it to be true. From the beautiful silver candlesticks to the worn, comfortable kitchen chairs, these items were now _ours_, and the very fact that Erik shared them with me made them treasures.

I spent almost half an hour wandering through our home and touching things whose dearness had been renewed and deepened: the piano, the positively ancient blanket Erik would wrap me in when the kitchen was chilly, the book of Swedish fairytales on a table in the music room.

Eventually, however, my footsteps led me to a door I had only been through once.

He had done it to frighten me, I was certain; _that_ night, Erik had been even more furious with me than he had been with the rest of humanity. We had barely reached his home, after plunging from the stage in the midst of _Don Juan Triumphant_, when Erik had ordered me to change into the wedding dress he designed for me. And instead of allowing me to switch costumes in the comfort of the Louis-Philippe room, Erik had dragged me to this dark, menacing door, and told me to change within.

I had not known until then that he slept inside a coffin.

Now, I glanced over my shoulder, looking for any sign of my husband. Erik had not forbidden me to enter his room; he knew there was no need to. Never, before yesterday, would I have willingly opened that black door.

But now I was his wife. I had vowed to accept all of him, even his flaws, even his darkness, and the coffin-room was one of his shadows—one that, suddenly, I felt I must face immediately.

If he had locked it, of course, my standing indecisively before it was pointless; I reached out, hesitantly, to touch the doorknob of blood-red glass.

It turned.

The door swung open smoothly, silently, gliding away from the slightest pressure of my fingertips. After looking behind me once more, I turned and stepped forward.

My candle illuminated little of the brooding darkness, but if I remembered correctly, there was a gaslight just to my left—there. I concentrated on lighting the lamp so that my hands would not shake; illumination spilled through the room, and I forced myself to turn and look.

Dominating the back wall was Erik's organ. The sight of it made me shiver; it was detailed in the black and red that were this room's theme, and seemed to stare at me with a menacing scowl. _Don Juan Triumphant_ had been composed at that organ, and it was as if the instrument was rebuking me for not allowing the production of its masterpiece to finish playing.

I shook myself. Nonsense. The organ was completely incapable of such strong emotion.

Its master, however . . .

No, I would not think of that. Erik had made no mention of the disaster _that_ nighthad been since the fight which ended in my bruised wrist. Perhaps more importantly, I hadn't seen the raging anger lurking in his expressive eyes since then, either.

I was surprised, turning, to find that the open coffin did not frighten me nearly as much as the organ had. It was morbid, yes, but somehow I found it unthreatening.

Feeling more and more a master of my surroundings, even though their true master was absent, I walked over to the coffin and gently closed the lid.

If I had any say in the matter, Erik had spent his last night in _this_ particular bed.

Was the coffin bolted down? Experimentally, I leaned down, gripped one of the handles, and _yanked_.

It didn't budge.

I straightened and glared down at the offending piece of furniture. _I_ was my husband's mistress now, not this thing. I was determined to conquer it, even if my 'victory was only for it to move a handful of inches.

All thoughts of conquering the coffin fled completely, however, when Erik's long hands slid from my shoulders to my wrists.

I closed my eyes as he folded our arms around me and drew me back against him; through the thin material of my robe, I tried to gauge his mood. He didn't _feel_ tense, but all the same, my breath quickened. Erik probably wasn't angry with me . . . but only probably. How long had he been here? I had an uncomfortable feeling that Erik had been leaning in the doorway watching me almost since I entered his room.

His mouth touched my ear and slowly, delicately he began to explore it. I held perfectly still, though I was melting inside. Deliberately, he moved from my ear to my throat, lightly nibbling its length until he reached my shoulder, before returning his full attention to my ear. He was gentle at first, and then rough, insistent. But Erik's roughest, at least in love, was never _too_ rough, and it took all of my willpower to not react.

"You're far too stiff," he complained after a few more moments, his hands caressing my waist. When I did not answer, he quietly said, "Christine, I am not angry with you."

At this, I looked back at him. "Truly?"

He held my gaze; the intensity in his eyes sent delicious warmth into the pit of my stomach. "I swore yesterday that everything I have is yours. Even this room, though I had not thought you would want to see it again." Erik raised his eyebrows at me, but I didn't want to answer the question inherent in his words. I wasn't sure I knew the reason myself.

But if he wasn't angry . . .

I fully turned around in his arms and let my eyes roam his face and torso. Erik was maskless and alluring in his dark trousers and unbuttoned white shirt; I smiled, allowing myself to close the distance between us and slowly, warmly kiss the exposed skin of his chest. Glancing up for permission, I lightly trailed my fingers from his throat to his navel in loops and whorls, drawing make-believe runes across his stomach.

A light pull about my hips made me glance down; Erik was tugging insistently at the sash of my robe. I was wearing a nightgown underneath, but the intimacy of his touch still made me tremble. I looked back up, and he leaned in enough to murmur against my temple, "Do you know what I am thinking?"

"No," I denied, teasing. He let go of my sash in order to stroke my back.

"I think," Erik continued, his mouth moving down my cheek, "that you should come back to bed."

I smiled. "And why is that?" I asked innocently.

He laughed softly against my lips. "Because I think that you would find both the floor and the coffin highly uncomfortable, my dear."

Lowering my eyes demurely, I glanced up at him through my eyelashes and wickedly murmured, "The couch in the music room is closer."

I think I shocked him; Erik drew back enough to stare at me for a moment, and then he smirked. "The bed is softer."

"True," I whispered just before he kissed me. His touch was slow and deeply tender; I wrapped my arms more tightly around his neck. When we finally parted, I unthinkingly asked, "Are you certain that the coffin won't hold two?"

"If I thought you were the least bit serious," Erik retorted, "I would take you up on that offer."

I blushed; he was right. I was nowhere near ready to contemplate sleeping in the coffin, with or without him.

Erik swung me up into his arms and started to carry me out of the room, but my gaze caught something I had missed earlier. "Where does that door lead?" I pointed to a door in the back, by the organ, which was a plain and inviting brown in contrast to the rest of the room.

Turning to see what I meant, Erik hesitated, then glanced at me. "Do you need to know immediately, or can I show you that room later?"

I tilted my head, considering. "Later."

He grinned.

We had made it halfway through the kitchen when Erik's arms around me tensed suddenly; without warning, I was set firmly on my feet. I frowned up at him, but my husband was not paying attention to me. His face was as hard as stone. I turned around to see what he was regarding with so chilly a disposition, but even as I did, I heard my beloved's wonderful voice frigidly say, "Hello, daroga."

Worry began to worm through my heart. Nadir Khan stood in our kitchen, his hat in his hands; the former daroga's expression was one of intense regret. I hated to see him so pained, for Erik had told me a little of his friend, and I had genuinely liked the man on the two occasions we had met.

The last of those, though, had torn a rift between Erik and Nadir. The Persian had not been invited to our wedding; Erik would not hear of it. He had yet to forgive Nadir for bringing Raoul down to the lair.

Raoul had not been invited to the wedding, either, but that was because I wasn't foolish enough to suggest it. To either of them.

"Erik," Nadir replied quietly.

Silence.

Shakily—hoping that Erik wouldn't see it as a betrayal—I smiled at Nadir. "Welcome to our home, monsieur Khan." I turned back to my husband and lightly touched his good cheek, bringing his attention down to me. "I think I should make tea," I murmured, while pulling my robe a little more tightly around me. Even though I still wore my nightgown beneath it, I was certainly _not_ dressed for company.

Erik nodded, shortly. I stepped away from him and started a search for the teacups which was interrupted when I heard my husband swear viciously. I whirled around to find him with his back to Nadir, his hand covering the right side of his face.

A flutter of joy spurted in my heart because my acceptance of him had obviously made Erik forget he wasn't wearing a mask, but it was followed swiftly by pain on his behalf. How he hated to be so exposed, especially in front of one of the few he counted as friends. "_Christine_," he begged, not looking at me.

I knew what he wanted and started to leave the kitchen and retrieve his mask, but the Persian shook his head at me. I paused, waiting.

"Erik," Nadir spoke gently, coming up behind him and slowly reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. "Erik, please. Not for me."

My breath caught.

Slowly, so very slowly, Erik lowered his hand from his face.

I waited until he nodded at me again before I returned to making the tea; it was another full minute before Erik faced Nadir.

_Erik_

"Did you come here for a reason?" I questioned lowly, resisting the urge to cover my ruined face again.

Nadir glanced at the table. "May I sit down?"

I nodded my assent and waited for him to get comfortable; I preferred to stand.

"I had hoped," Nadir continued once he was seated, "to offer my congratulations to you." If he noticed my disbelieving snort, he paid it no mind; Nadir's attention was firmly focused on his hands, clasped together on the table. "And, perhaps, to apologize for leading Raoul de Chagny here. That trespass seems to have cost me a friendship I valued, and I came to see if it was possible to gain that friendship back." At this last, finally, his tone softened, though it retained Nadir's inherent dignity.

"Why?" Nadir looked up at me, startled, and I quickly clarified. "Why did you have to bring him down here, daroga?"

It was difficult—incredibly so—to just stand with my face in the open air. I was only able to remain civil by listening to the sounds of Christine making tea in the kitchen behind me. With her—for her—I could do anything, even let the one man left in the world who I respected see the horror that passed for my face.

He didn't want to answer, I could see that much; Nadir has an annoying preoccupation with scrupulous honesty. If his views on the truth were a little more flexible, this would be easier for him.

The teapot whistled; Christine brought a tray to the table, filled with tea cups, the teapot, leaves, bags, spoons, and . . . where had she gotten pastries?

I would have sworn there were no pastries in this house last night.

Gazing at the wonder who was my wife, I bemusedly sat down at her bidding as she began pouring us tea.

The three of us were silent until everything was arranged on the table to Christine's liking. She sat between Nadir and me; for a moment, the quiet tap of her spoon against her teacup was the only sound we heard.

She glanced up at me, a teasing expression in her eyes. "No comments about the amount of sugar I like?"

Despite myself, I laughed softly. Christine will usually deposit what I consider an absurd amount of sugar into an otherwise satisfactory cup of tea, and I have tormented her about it for the past week in an explosion of pre-wedding nerves. How she put up with me for the last seven days, I had no idea . . . but then, I don't know how Christine puts up with me on a regular basis.

The tension broke a little, with my laughter; enough, at least, that Nadir felt comfortable answering me. "Erik," he replied quietly, "I know your temper. I felt uneasy about Christine's presence in your home for any prolonged period of time, considering the history between the two of you. When the Vicomte came to me, begging to be taken to the woman he referred to as his fiancée, I felt that it was best to accompany him—for all three of your sakes."

My fist tightened automatically—that _boy_ still believed Christine was engaged to him?

"Erik," Christine murmured, taking my clenched fist into her hands and lightly running her fingers over my skin. "I'm here."

I raised my eyes to hers; they were calm, gentle.

Loving.

Christine's cool touch opened my hand, slowly, and she interlocked our fingers while keeping her gaze on me. I sighed and nodded, then glanced over at my longtime friend. "Nadir, you have seen me through murder, treachery, and madness. I can't . . ."I looked down at Christine's hand, so trustingly holding mine, for strength. To her pale fingertips, I finished, "It would be poor etiquette indeed for me to repay your friendship with enmity." I glanced up at Nadir, calculating, and then forced a tight grin. "Though I dare say you shall be relieved to turn my 'keeping' over to the entirely capable hands of my wife."

He snorted. "I do not doubt her ability to influence you, Erik, but it would be too much of a bother to change my ways now. I will always be your conscience."

"No man should be cursed with two." It felt strange in my mouth, the old familiar banter with him; my heart was not ready to soften, and the words were bitterer than they should have been.

"On the contrary, Erik, you need as many consciences as you can obtain." Nadir seemed willing enough to accept my words as they were; perhaps he understood. If anyone did, it would be Christine or he. They were the only two who knew enough to understand how difficultly forgiveness came to me.

Perhaps because they were the only people I had ever tried to forgive.

Hiding that thought away inside of me so that it would not show on my face, I nodded to Christine, who had begun to clean up the tea, and raised one eyebrow. "You'll pardon me, of course, Nadir, if I prefer to hear _her _voice in my head."

Nadir stood and bowed to Christine. "Of course. What man would not rather hear the voice of an angel than the grumbling of an old Persian?" Christine smiled at Nadir and curtseyed; I kept a careful eye on the tray she was holding. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe that I must be returning to my own business."

_Christine_

Nadir left, but I did not see it; I kept my gaze fixed on my husband. Erik was still sitting at the table, his back to me, and I couldn't seem to find the words that would break our silence.

Fortunately, I did not have to.

"Christine," he murmured, his voice a low, rough plea, "could you do something for me?"

So he would not shut me out, after all. Watching him speak with Nadir, that possibility had frightened me more than the thought of his temper shrugging off its bounds.

Knowing how much he hated asking anyone for help, I came to his side. "Anything."

He turned, slightly, to look up at me. For a moment he simply stared, almost not seeing me, then Erik allowed the faintest of pained whispers to escape his throat. "I need you."

I knew he did not mean in passion.

Taking my husband's hand, I led him back to the Louis-Philippe room. Gentle despite his protests, I lay down on the wide couch and took him into my arms, holding him tightly as he buried his face in my shoulder.

I do not know how long we lay there; I sung, sometimes, light meaningless things, and stroked his hair and back tenderly. Mostly, though, I just held him and whispered to Erik how very much I loved him.

Eventually, he stopped shaking.

If it took this—my love and his own strength—for Erik to forgive _Nadir_, what had he gone through inside to forgive me?

Had he?

That thought, however, had nothing to do with us, now, and I banished it.

Erik sat up and pulled me with him, continuing the motion until he was once more standing and carrying me. Deliberately, he turned back the way we had originally come, toward the coffin-room.

"Erik?"

"I want you to see something."

We went straight through the great black door and across the length of the coffin-room to the other door, the plain one I had noticed earlier. Erik set me down and reached one long hand out to finger the doorknob; he looked at me for a long moment as he held the knob in his hand, as though determining whether or not he really wanted to open this door for me; then I heard the click of a lock and the light wood opened toward us.

With a gesture of his hand, Erik motioned me through.

I took one step inside the room, as Erik lit the lamps behind me, and froze.

Vaguely, I knew there must be a desk, a chair, for this was a smaller version of his study. But that surmise came from logic, not sense, for the first and whole impression of this room was of . . . me.

Dozens, even hundreds of portraits of me covered the walls, the desk, each and every one illustrating an aspect of my personality. It was not merely Erik's exquisite attention to detail that overwhelmed; it was that, in each of these sketches, he showed me _me_. The woman staring back at me was myself, drawn with a sure hand, a hand that knew me better than I ever could, that showed not a perfected, dream-Christine, but my true self.

And the love.

The _love_ that seeped from these reflections was fierce, piercing; I took another step forward and heard the floor crunch beneath me.

Had he rescued every rose he had ever given me and laid their dried petals out for a carpet? The scent was wonderful, and there were soft black ribbons strewn among the rose petals, each a commemoration of a time when I had pleased my impossible teacher.

"Christine . . ."

Maybe I should have been frightened of the thoroughness of his love and need for me. Erik had been wise to keep this from me until now; the girl who had fainted at the sight of her own mannequin would have reacted much more strongly to a room devoted to her living soul.

I had not been that girl for a long time.

Turning, I flew into my husband's arms.

**AN:** Here is the second chapter, folks! Hope that you're enjoying so far! All of your lovely reviews make writing come faster and easier (hint). Truly, thanks guys!

Oh, btw. I know that this chapter gets a tad more . . . descriptive. This is absolutely the farthest it goes, so those of you who, like me, neither read nor write lemons—I hope this wasn't too much for you.

On the other hand . . . I know I wrote a bit more for you, my dear Co-Mistress of the DE, but I decided it needed chopping. What can I say? I'm a wimp!

**EDIT**: I'm such a dork! I forgot, when posting, to put up this disclaimer. I have realized that, situationally, this chapter particularly bears quite a few resemblances to Riene's wonderful EC phic, "Red Rose", which I adore. I am absolutely not copying anything from that excellent work, and I think the story lines are different enough that it shouldn't be a problem, but I just wanted to acknowledge the similarities. If you want some absolutely beautiful EC writing, go read "Red Rose" for yourself—it's in my Favorites list. I would post a link, but FF.N confuses me. Thanks again!

Review replies for anonymous:

COURTNEY: Thanks! Here's more for you!


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Ahh! I forgot, when I posted this morning, to officially dedicate this chapter to my wonderful Melody's Song, without whose brilliance this post would be but a pale shadow of itself. A thousand snogs, dear!**

_Erik_

I heard her voice in my head, as sweet and pure as the first time I had ever heard her sing, but with the richer, fuller sound that I had given her. So much of what was in that voice I had never meant for her to know; I could hear the shadows that lifted her notes into their resonating clarity, because they were shadows she carried for me. The rose who had known sorrow but never rage learned the blood-red fire of her own hatred at my hands. We had hardly begun to understand each other before we had to hate or die, because as long as we lived in opposing worlds we could not bear to love.

Music passed from my heart to the page in the quick movement of my pen across the score, but I hardly saw it. I was hearing the past, listening to the last truly innocent words Christine had sung, back before we had plunged into the nightmare of our passion.

"_Who was that shape in the shadows?_

_Whose was the face in the mask. . ."_

Then rage, swift and untamed and terrifying even to me, had roared into my veins. How could she betray me so willfully? She had damned herself and me to a circle of pain neither of us was strong enough to break, all for the sake of a woman's curiosity. Swift quiet steps had crept up behind me, and a foreign warmth more intoxicating than any drug had brushed along my cheek before with a ripping of our lives the heat was gone, and my mask with it, and I stood exposed as the lying demon I was—

That same warmth stroked down the left half of my face, still powerful, still compelling, and its deceptive tenderness sparked the fires of my anger into new life. Before she could tear off my mask again, I twisted to snag my right arm around Christine's waist and yanked her toward me, spinning her around and knocking her back into the organ with a crash. The double keyboards jangled as her head and back hit them, echoing my fury, and I snaked one hand around her neck. My other arm wrapped around her in a tight, rough grip, crushing her delicate frame against me; I glared down into her eyes, inches from mine. "Listen to me, you _vicious _little-"

She was shaking in my arms. Her eyes were wide, frightened, the edges tightening with the pain she was undoubtedly in.

I realized, horrified, that I wasn't even wearing my mask. I had not worn it in the two weeks since our wedding.

I whispered "Christine," softening my hold on her. Burning with self-loathing, I tore my hand away from her throat and instead used it to gently lift her head, cradling her in my arms. "Oh, Christine," I groaned.

"Erik, what—" she closed her eyes, briefly freeing me from her fear, and my chest tightened as two tears slipped out from under the lids. She _hated_ crying. "What's wrong, why did you—what did I do?" she began, and then at the last question her eyes snapped open. They were no longer filled with fear, but I wasn't certain that the dawning realization in them was an improvement.

"I'm sorry," I begged softly. We had never talked about the night she first saw my face; like too many other painful things, we simply pretended that it had never happened. "Please, Christine, I'm so sorry," I lifted her up gently until I was holding her against my chest.

Apologizing to her was easier, now, than it used to be. I never had said the words "I'm sorry" to Christine before she came to live with me, even though I had so much to beg her forgiveness for, but tonight they came to my lips almost naturally.

She winced as I lifted my fingers into her hair, and I swore softly as I jerked my hand away. Standing as carefully as I could, I carried her into the music room and gently laid her on face down on the couch. "Let me see," I pleaded when she moved away from my fingers at her neck.

"It hurts."

My eyes closed. "I know, Christine, but I can't help if you won't let me." We were silent for a moment, then I felt her nod under my fingertips.

She would not have a concussion, I discovered, and her head wasn't bleeding from hitting the organ's top keyboard. Quickly, dispassionately, I undid her gown and corset to look at her back where it had smacked into the lower row of keys. It was bruising, but there was no other damage, and I immediately redid her corset—albeit much, much more loosely. When I finished with the top button of her gown, the quiet around us became intolerable. Christine had whimpered, a little, and each tiny moan of pain from her broke my heart, but now she was still.

"You will have a headache," I finally murmured, standing. "You'll need tea."

I had only crossed half the room when her voice stopped me. "Erik."

I looked back over my shoulder. Christine had turned her head to look at me; her face was half buried in the cushions, giving her pale white skin an eerie similarity to one of my masks. "Yes?"

"Are we going to talk about it," she asked, her voice unnervingly calm, "or are you going to fix me tea, burn what you were working on, and make us both believe this never happened?"

I wondered when she found the ashes of the work I had been composing the last time I harmed her.

Not meeting her eyes, I simply said, "You need tea."

"_No_." The emotion that had been missing from Christine's tone rang into that one word. "I am not going to drink _anything_ until you come back here and we talk, Erik. I won't." I looked away from her. "You don't think I can out-wait you, but I can. I've learned a lot in the last year, my love." I did not move. "Erik, _please_."

Swiftly, I returned to her and knelt by the couch, firmly taking her chin into my fingers. "What do you want me to say, Christine? That I'm sorry? I am. I always will be, for this and everything else. Do you want me to beg your forgiveness?" My voice softened. "Do you want me to be your willing slave? Ask it of me, and it is yours."

"You don't need my forgiveness, Erik. It was an accident."

My jaw clenched, and I forced myself to let go of her. "It was nothing of the sort."

"Yes, it was." She sat up, keeping her eyes on mine. "You were not with me in that room, Erik. You were with a foolish child—"

"And that makes throwing her against the organ hard enough to bruise _better_?"

Christine covered my mouth with her hand. "A foolish child," she repeated firmly, "who betrayed your trust more deeply than anyone else ever has."

I glanced down, trying not to voice the question in my mind, but when I looked back at her it slipped out of me in cool tones. "If you were standing on that bridge now, would you do it again?"

She drew back from me, startled, but I saw the answer in her eyes.

I stood. "I'm going to get you tea."

"Erik!" This time, I ignored her. Only when Christine grabbed my arm did I stop; she should be lying down, not chasing after me. "Don't I even get a chance to answer?"

Picking her up, I carried her back to the couch. "I know your answer."

"Then at least let me explain _why_." She grasped the loose collar of my shirt as I set her down, but I pulled away.

"Don't, Christine. Just don't."

"Erik, please don't do this to me." Christine's voice was small and young and I could no more resist her than I could turn back the last half hour. Carefully I gathered her back into my arms, minding her bruises, and settled down onto the couch. She curled so perfectly into me; every time I held her, I was astonished anew at how well we fit together.

Christine did not speak. I watched as she traced her hand from my elbow to my fingertips, her touch briefly resting against the single clear diamond imbedded in my wedding band. I held my tongue; she was the one who wanted to talk.

"I had to, Erik."

My eyes snapped back to her, but she wasn't looking at me; Christine was running her fingers across mine.

"Surely you know that by now," she continued when I didn't answer. "I realized it the moment you stepped out from behind the curtain. _You_ didn't care about the police or the guns or the law, so I had to."

I touched her jaw, lifting her face up to meet my gaze. "And I knew," Christine said lowly, "that you might hate me forever." I closed my eyes, and her voice grew stronger. "I had already experienced your hatred; it scarred me, but I could live with it. I could not live knowing that you died because you were too blind to see the hangman's noose surrounding that stage."

_Christine_

He buried his face into my shoulder and was still. I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding Erik closely against me and ignoring the twinge from my bruised back. "Do you understand now?" I whispered against his ear. "I had no other choice."

"I love you."

I smiled slowly. "I know."

"Do you? Can you?" He pulled back to look at me, and any remaining shock or anger at his rough treatment of me dissolved before the tears in his eyes. Erik moved his hand down my back, skimming feather-light over the bruised area. "When I do this to you, how can you believe that I love you?"

"Erik-"

His eyes narrowed. "Don't placate me, Christine." The tears had spilled down his cheeks but they did not ease the iron of his gaze. I did not—could not—answer, and he sighed, the lines in his face gentling as he looked away from me. "Every time I sit at the piano, I see the fear in your eyes that night. Why do you think _Don Juan_ was composed at the organ? I couldn't write it here, to the memory of shouting at you."

I took his face between my hands, turning his face back to mine. "And now? Will you avoid the organ as well?" Erik's eyes closed again; he dropped his forehead to the hollow of my throat.

"I don't necessarily agree that taking my mask off was the best solution you could have found," he muttered, disregarding my question.

He was _teasing _me. About _Don Juan_. I pressed a small smile into his hair. "I wouldn't have had to come up with anything if you had simply waited until _after_ the performance to abduct me."

A quiet chuckle was the only response he gave me.

Erik leaned back into the couch, pulling me with him until I was carefully held against his chest. I smiled again as his lips touched my temple, but as a minute of silence passed and another began, he still did not speak. I hesitated a moment longer, then murmured, "You didn't answer my question."

"Must I?"

I lifted my head to look at him. "I would rather you did." Erik stared into my eyes. "Please, Erik. If you had thrown me harder—if my blood had stained the keys—I would still want you to compose."

His jaw tightened at the image I had created, and he took a moment to answer. In a tone that was almost even, Erik replied, "I don't drag you up to the roof. Allow me to handle this as I choose."

I winced. The roof.

Erik's hands cupped my face; he kissed my cheek and pulled me back down to rest my head on his shoulder. "I win," he said dryly, but there was no triumph in his voice.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

He tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him, and his eyes were gentle. "We both made mistakes. I frightened you, and_ he_ never would." I could almost see him swallow the words _that boy_.

"Erik, do you still think—"

"Yes?"

I looked down at my hand lying against his shirt. Lifting it up, I touched my mouth briefly to my wedding ring. "You know I'll never leave you, don't you?"

When I finally looked back at him, he smiled, a slow, warm grin that sparked butterflies in the pit of my stomach. Tightening his arm around me, Erik closed the distance between us and fitted his mouth over mine in a shatteringly deep kiss.

**Author's Note:** We're pretending that "Stranger Than You Dreamt It" happened in the music room, with the piano, not at the organ (since I said that Christine had only been in Erik's room once).


End file.
